


Summit

by MusicPrincess655



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25823818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicPrincess655/pseuds/MusicPrincess655
Summary: For the summer Olympics, Oikawa and Ushijima have the chance to play on the same team. They make the most of it.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 153





	Summit

**Author's Note:**

> This was written by request! I've never written UshiOi before so I hope it goes well.

No conversation about volleyball is complete until someone mentions the view from the top.

It’s fitting, of course, for a sport that relies so heavily on height. When everyone jumps for the sky, reaches to clear the obstacles ahead of them, aims for that perfect view of the other side of the court, of course the most breathtaking sight is the view from the top. Some players spend their whole careers chasing a perfect moment hung in the air as they look over their opponents.

Spikers draw the most attention from the audience – always have, always will. They search relentlessly across the net for that perfect view. What’s less known is that setters have their very own version.

In Tooru’s experience, the most consideration spikers like to pay to their own side of the court is to check that they’re not about to run into their own teammates, that their path to the net is clear. All of their focus is on the other side, the other team. As it should be, in fairness, since their job is to attack again and again until the ball finally drops on that other side.

But they’re not the only players on the court, and Tooru has his own view.

He pays attention to the other side of the court, of course. He has to so he can know where the opposing blockers are, where the libero waits, where the path will be blocked. It’s his job to clear a path for his spikers, but not by force, not by dragging his spikers into following his pace, by moving impossibly fast around blocks.

Because Tooru’s view is for his own side of the court.

It’s not so much about seeing, not the way it is for spikers, especially the ones that can see every detail in a moment’s notice, down to the very features of their opponents’ faces as time slows down at the peak of their jump. For Tooru’s it’s about awareness. Here is the tiny orange boy who grew into a terrifying man, there is the middle blocker, back is the libero. Without looking, he sees them, sees their movements, feels their muscles tense. Setters have to know where everyone on their side of the court is at all times. It’s part of why Tooru has always been of the opinion that former setters make such excellent liberos, as long as their receives are strong.

Tooru’s not a machine, can’t feel the court like a massive grid and send pinpoint precise tosses to any coordinate on the map. A part of him will always envy Tobio this skill, but he wouldn’t give up his own view for that.

Because Tooru’s not a machine. His tosses are alive. They breathe, they sing, they match their pulse with the heartbeats of his teammates. His own style carried him all the way here to the Olympics, and his volleyball is the kind he wants to play.

It’s nearing twenty points in the last set of the game, and everyone’s exhausted from the long haul. To play multiple sets to deuce is far beyond what can be expected of any player, and yet, totally expected of this game. It’s for the gold medal, after all, and this is the highest level they can play.

If it’s any consolation, their opponents are just as tired. Brazil flags in this fifth set just as much as they do, but nobody will give up when the gold is at stake for simple exhaustion. Tooru has never once given up for simple exhaustion, even when he should’ve, and he won’t start now.

They’re ahead in deuce, and when Hoshiumi sends the ball over the net, the libero picks it up easily. Tooru prepares for the incoming spike, but when the spiker jumps higher than he expected, he wearily resigns himself to yet another round of deuce.

Then…

Impossibly…

Yaku is there. Yaku is under the ball, arms in a perfect receive, and the ball is still in the air. It falls as if in slow motion, dropping – bless Yaku, Tooru will sing his praises later and he’ll even be sincere about it – to a spot the perfect distance from the net to give Tooru dealer’s choice on who to set to.

There’s Hoshiumi, of course, flagging but still filled with fighting spirit. He replaced Shouyou a few sets ago, and he’s gone all out ever since. There’s Sakusa, quiet power radiating from him, silently begging for the chance to end this game with his own hands.

And then, on the left, always on the left, steady and devoted, dauntless and relentless, is Ushijima. He’s spiked more than anyone else in this game, not because Tooru is a fan of feeding into the endless spiking machine that is his husband, but because he’s done such a good job of finding his own clear path, working off Tooru almost like artistry to give them the best chances of success.

Ushijima isn’t the only possible choice, not like Tooru used to act in high school. He doesn’t have perfect trust in only one spiker. Tooru could set to one of the others and believe that the point will go through.

But Ushijima is the choice he makes anyway, because it’s the one he wants to make, because he can so very clearly see the end result and it’s a future he wants to live.

“Ushijima!” he cries needlessly, because Ushijima has spent a lifetime ready for him, no matter how long Tooru took to realize it.

When the ball connects, Tooru feels it as a pulse in his own fingertips that reverberates down his body to all the parts of him that squirm when the fire of Ushijima’s gaze is locked on him. The ball, when it crashes down on the other side of the court, is deafening, leaving Tooru in silence with a ringing in his ears.

All of a sudden, the exhaustion in his body crashes through his legs, and the only thing keeping him from collapse is a pair of warm, strong hands on his hips.

“Tooru,” Ushijima says, no pretense in the victory of his tone. “That was perfect.”

Their teammates celebrate around them, everyone on the bench coming out to lift the victors in the air, but Tooru stands frozen in time, nothing but Ushijima’s eyes and hands and shoulders and breath and heart and…

“My legs are gonna give out,” he whispers, because how can he possibly quantify everything that beats inside him?

“Do you want to be carried bridal style or piggybacked?” Ushijima deadpans, and just like that, the moment shatters, and Tooru is real again.

“You know, this is why no one believes me when I say you’re funny,” Tooru sighs, draping his arms over Ushijima’s shoulders just to be petulant. “You’re the funniest person I know, you know that? If you could just fix your tone, you could go into standup comedy when you retire from volleyball. Nobody can tell you’re joking.”

Granted, Tooru isn’t always sure himself. He’s not convinced Ushijima knows all the time. Everyone takes Ushijima at face value, assumes he’s being serious, and sometimes he is, and sometimes he’s just fucking with everyone, and almost no one can tell the difference. But the deadpan way he’ll sometimes say ridiculous things is the height of comedy, now that Tooru knows it’s happening.

“You’re babbling,” Ushijima tells him.

“I’m happy,” Tooru replies. “We did it. We won.”

All that time spent trying to win, trying to be the best, trying to be better than Ushijima, and now they play for the same team, and that team stands at the top of the world. Tooru is the best, and so is Ushijima, and so is everyone who fought with them.

Tooru can’t quite remember all the reasons he shouldn’t kiss Ushijima for that in front of everyone.

“Oi, will you two get a room!” Iwaizumi yells from the sideline. “We have to get ready for the medal ceremony! The bronze team’s been waiting for over an hour!”

Tooru doesn’t remember much of the leadup to the medal ceremony, just a blur of clearing their gear from the court and splashing water on his face in a poor surrogate of a shower and zipping his jacket over his sweaty uniform until he looks nearly presentable and suddenly he stands before the world, head and shoulders above the other teams, a gold medal resting over his chest very nearly on top of where a ring hangs by a chain under his shirt, connecting with his heart.

Ushijima bought the chains, and the length of them is a sentimentality on his part, though Tooru can’t say he disapproves. The weight of the medal on his wedding ring is comforting, grounding, real in a way that their victory still doesn’t seem to be.

Tooru slips his hand into Ushijima’s as they stand for applause, as their national anthem plays over them. Tooru doesn’t sing along, still in some kind of shock, and Ushijima, for all his other skills, is rather tone deaf, so they stand as rocks in the storm that is their team, screaming the words at the top of their lungs, drunk on victory.

Tooru never lets go of Ushijima’s hand as they step down from the platform and flow with the surge of their teammates into interviews which Tooru is sure he completes flawlessly from force of habit alone. They’re herded along again into a wild after party, celebrating their win with alcohol and food and music and some of the best and worst dancing Tooru has ever seen, and he laughs himself stupid at some of the antics that will be excused away later in the heat of winning, Ushijima still holding his arm to keep him standing.

“Some party, huh?” he asks, elbowing Ushijima in the ribs. It’s the kind of thing he used to love in university, but now leaves him wiped for days and isn’t quite worth it anymore.

“Kageyama is going to have a hangover to end his life tomorrow,” Ushijima notes, looking as Shouyou urges Tobio to take yet another shot he’ll definitely regret.

“Sucks to be him,” Tooru shrugs. He and Tobio are cool now, have been for some time, but it doesn’t mean Tooru can’t still laugh at him for getting in way over his head. “Think you could drink him under the table, Ushiwaka-chan?”

“I thought I told you to stop calling me that,” Ushijima says, and when he finally kisses Tooru, there’s only amusement on his lips. The nickname stopped being a sore spot years ago, back when they finally stopped arguing and started listening to each other, and it’s the closest thing Tooru has to a pet name. After all, both of them balk at the idea of being called _sweetheart_ and _baby._

If anyone notices them kissing, no one comments on it. No one makes gagging noises at them for being so openly in love in public. _Boys will be boys_ still applies to grown men, as it turns out, and while their friends accept and celebrate their marriage, it doesn’t mean they can’t descend into dramatics about public affection as if they never left high school.

“I bet we can have a better party with just the two of us,” Ushijima says, breaking the kiss but staying close enough that his breath caresses Tooru’s lips. “Wouldn’t you like to go home?”

They’ve been staying in the Olympic Village with the rest of the team, and while it’s fantastic for fostering camaraderie, Tooru misses their bed, the world they built for themselves.

“All our stuff is here,” Tooru reminds him, less as a protest and more as a talking point. He’s not opposed at all, but his favorite sweater’s here.

“No one will notice if we leave,” Ushijima says. “No one will notice if we come back.”

And Tooru has to admit, he has a pretty fucking spectacular point there.

Tooru giggles like a teenager as they slip away from the party and flag down a cab. He leans heavily into Ushijima’s side in the backseat, muscles shaking from a very long, very hard day, but energy buzzing beneath his skin. The truth of their win is finally setting in, and Tooru revels in it.

He’s more grateful than he thought he would be to see their apartment building. The clean, modern lines are welcoming, and Tooru’s just happy to be _home_ after weeks away. The Olympics were one of the best experiences of his life, one he wouldn’t trade for the world, but he’s ready to rest now, to go home and heal and celebrate.

“So we live on the top floor because why again?” he complains as they wait for the elevator. He wants his body plastered all over Ushijima’s _yesterday,_ and it’s definitely not appropriate to do it in the lobby.

Even if Tooru is well beyond caring.

“Because you insisted on a view,” Ushijima tells him.

“And you let me have my way?” Tooru asks. Ushijima just gives him a blank look that means _I usually do._

Tooru has the grace to wait until the elevator doors close before he shoves Ushijima to the wall and kisses him.

It’s nothing like the kiss from earlier, filled with laughter and teasing and a victory high. This is _filthy,_ more tongue than anything else, Tooru gripping Ushijima’s shoulders possessively.

“That last spike was incredible,” Tooru tells him between kisses. “I felt that in my _bones._ ”

He says it because he knows Ushijima won’t mock him for the fact that volleyball gets him hot and bothered, because Ushijima, though he won’t say it, is just as hot for it. Tooru wouldn’t be surprised if the perfection of that last set had gotten him to pop a boner, and he’ll be doubly surprised if it doesn’t feature in Ushijima’s fantasies for months to come.

The dinging of the elevator just barely reminds Tooru that they’re not in their apartment, not yet. He slides away, lets Ushijima find his footing and follow. Tooru walks backwards down the hall, gaze locked with Ushijima, fiery gold burning through him. Tooru feels like he’s about to ignite, and he wants to, wants to let Ushijima set him alight.

Ushijima, bless him, remembered the keys, and he opens the door while crowding Tooru against it, chests just a beat apart, tall enough that even with Tooru’s height, he still feels surrounded. The door gives behind his back, and he pulls Ushijima through with a fist in his shirt. As soon as the door closes, Ushijima reverses their earlier position, backing Tooru up against the wall of their entranceway.

The picture frames on the wall rattle with the force of it, Ushijima practically lifting Tooru from the ground by proximity alone. Tooru doesn’t have to look to see what’s in the frames, pictures of their friends, their families, the people they’ve chosen to surround themselves with. Their respective teams. They got to play together for the Olympics, but they’re not on the same team usually, and Tooru likes it that way. He likes that they still compete – although now it’s much more friendly than it used to be – likes that they still have their own pieces of the life they share together, pieces that belong only to them. They don’t live in each other’s pockets, and Tooru thinks their relationship wouldn’t work at all if they were around each other every hour of every day. They’re still their own people, and the time spent apart only makes the time they spend together better.

Still, Tooru can’t imagine parting right now, hooking on leg over Ushijima’s hip and rolling forward. Ushijima grabs him under his thighs and lifts, and Tooru helps, squeezing and holding on tight as Ushijima walks them to their bedroom.

He doesn’t drop Tooru on the bed, but lowers him down and follows him until they’re pressed together all the way down, rolling his hips between Tooru’s spread thighs. Tooru digs his fingers into the strong muscles of Ushijima’s back, marveling at the flex, and grinds up against his husband.

“Come on,” Tooru goads, impatient and needy. He’s being a brat on purpose because it has a history of getting Ushijima to hurry up. He strips his own shirt off impatiently and reaches for the hem of Ushijima’s.

“Bossy,” Ushijima chides, but without heat, as he pulls Tooru’s sweatpants down and takes his underwear along with them.

“You love me,” Tooru shoots back, spreading his legs more as Ushijima goes for the lube in their bedside table.

“Of course.”

Ushijima kisses down Tooru’s chest, pausing over his stomach as his fingers stroke over Tooru’s entrance, rolling gently. He takes his time pushing the first one in, sucking the tip of Tooru’s dick into his mouth at the same time.

“You’re careful tonight,” Tooru pants, not bothering to keep his hips still. Ushijima can take it, and Tooru swears he gets off on getting Tooru off. Ushijima pulls off him.

“I intend to be demanding later,” he says.

“Fuck,” Tooru says. “Okay, okay, _fuck._ ”

Ushijima just pushes another finger into him and spreads them.

Tooru rides along the edge of an orgasm, pulling on Ushijima’s hair to stop the blowjob whenever he feels too close to coming. Ushijima is attentive, taking all the time he wants to open Tooru up until he’s flexing four of his fingers right where Tooru wants them the most.

“Please please _please,_ ” Tooru begs, strung out and desperate. Ushijima pulls his fingers out, and Tooru feels even more empty than usual for how long Ushijima spent on prepping him.

Ushijima rolls him onto his side and lifts one leg to rest an ankle on his shoulder. Tooru presses down with his heel for leverage. He might be bottoming, but he’s never been passive. He briefly toys with the idea of rolling them over and riding Ushijima, but he dismisses it. Ushijima clearly has a vision of what he wants, and Tooru will let him have it. If he wants to take care of Tooru tonight, the kindest thing Tooru can do is let him.

Ushijima pushes into him slowly, letting Tooru feel the whole length of the slide. Tooru moans through the whole thing, the sound buzzing low in his throat, and uses his leg to lift his hips and complete the thrust, shivering when Ushijima’s balls fit flush against his skin.

“Are you…?” Ushijima starts to ask.

“You wanna be demanding?” Tooru asks, setting his hands on the bed so he can use them to thrust back against Ushijima. “Be demanding.”

It’s all the permission Ushijima needs. His hips snap back out and immediately back in, and Tooru whines at the sudden roughness. After so long of Ushijima being careful and gentle with him, the shift is jarring.

Tooru wants more.

“Harder,” he demands, using his arms and shoulders to roll his hips against Ushijima’s.

Ushijima complies, leaning forward and stretching Tooru’s thigh and pounding him into the mattress. He reaches forward, links his hand with one of Tooru’s, and that almost finishes Tooru right then and there.

“Wakatoshi,” Tooru pants, clinging to his hand, weaving their fingers together. “Toshi, come on, I’m almost there, give it to me.”

“Anything,” Ushijima says. “Anything you want, Tooru.”

Tooru whines, squeezes Ushijima’s hand between his fingers, clenches down and comes. He’s still shivering through the aftershocks when Ushijima leans ever farther forward, letting Tooru’s leg fall off his shoulder so he can reach Tooru’s mouth in a kiss. Tooru rolls, letting Ushijima settle against him fully as he comes, shaking and warm inside Tooru, swallowing his moans.

Ever considerate, Ushijima rolls so they’re on their sides facing each other while Tooru’s still trying to get his brain back online. He slips out, and Tooru makes a disgusted sound, because that will never not feel gross, no matter how good sex feels. He can still reach someone’s shirt, although he’ll never be sure whose, and give himself a cursory cleanup. They both really need showers, still sweaty from the match, but Tooru isn’t quite ready to get up yet.

Ushijima does it for him, though, pulling Tooru out of bed and dragging him to their bathroom, letting him sit on the stool and aiming the showerhead over his hair. Tooru manages to shampoo and condition his own hair while Ushijima cleans himself up, and they really are both too tired to bother with the bath, so instead they dry themselves off half-heartedly and collapse back into bed.

Tooru’s hair is going to be an unmanageable mess tomorrow, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Ushijima lies on his side and faces him, exhaustion evident in his eyes. He’s probably mere moments from passing out, but still trying to stay awake a little longer, just so he can look into Tooru’s eyes for a few minutes more. He’s into sappy shit like that.

So is Tooru, even if he won’t admit it.

Tooru reaches out and plays with Ushijima’s ring where the chain has fallen to the side, almost resting on his shoulder.

“We did it,” he says softly, reverently. “We really won.”

“Mm,” Ushijima hums, already slipping into sleep. He rests a heavy hand on Tooru’s hip. Tooru tucks his head under Ushijima’s chin for now, knowing full well their shared body heat will drive them to separate in their sleep.

Ushijima’s breathing evens out, his heartbeat slowing under Tooru’s cheek. Tooru matches his breaths to it, letting the exhaustion of the day take over his body, and safe in his own bed, he follows Ushijima under.

The blaring of Ushijima’s alarm wakes him in the morning, sunlight weak through the window. Really, they should’ve gotten up earlier and headed back to the Olympic Village, but Tooru is ungodly sore and stiff and entirely unwilling to get up.

“What if we just didn’t?” he complains.

Ushijima, the horrific asshole, moves about the apartment easily, as if he’s not sore from a too-long game and an athletic round of sex. He sets a coffee for Tooru on the nightstand, probably with the perfect amount of cream and sugar in it because he’s terrible like that, and presses a sweet kiss to Tooru’s cheek.

“Don’t you want all your things?” Ushijima asks.

“Tobio owes me a favor,” Tooru says. He doesn’t, but he’d probably bring their stuff if Tooru asked. He’s a sweet kid in his own way.

“People will talk if we disappear and don’t come back.”

“But do I care what people think of me?” Tooru asks. Ushijima gives him a blank look. “Okay, fine, you’re right. I definitely do.”

“We can be in and out,” Ushijima says. “We don’t have to stay there anymore.”

There’s a bitter sweetness in the end of the Olympics. Tooru is thrilled they won, that their efforts have paid off, but it will be a long time before he can have an experience like this again. He can only hope that, in four years’ time, he’ll have the chance to see his view on the highest possible stage once again.

“Okay, okay,” Tooru gripes, groaning like an old man as he peels himself out of bed. “You win. Let’s get this over with.”

As predicted, Tooru’s hair is completely impossible to fix. A straightener only makes him look somewhat passable, and he reluctantly lets it slide. If he doesn’t look quite himself, it will have to be okay, because he’s still tired and unwilling to put in all the extra effort to make himself perfectly presentable.

Ushijima, as promised, moves them through picking up their stuff quickly, letting Tooru sit on the bed as he packs, throwing things at Tooru to fold and put away. Soon enough, they’re both shouldering their bags and leaving the Olympic Village.

Tooru looks back as they leave, raising his hand in farewell.

“We’ll be back,” Ushijima promises. “Four years isn’t really that long.”

“Of course,” Tooru says. “How could we not?”

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr: [ musicprincess655 ](http://musicprincess655.tumblr.com/)


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